We Made Our Best Mistakes
by chalantness
Summary: "So, you don't hate the hair after all?"


**Title:** _We Made Our Best Mistakes_ **  
Rating:** PG-13  
 **Word Count:** ~3,200  
 **Characters:** Steve/Natasha  
 **Summary:** "So, you don't hate the hair after all?"

 **A/N:** I'm more proud of myself than is warranted for writing something so dramatic out of a single spoiler. But I have a lot of _feelings_ , apparently.

A continuation of "Here We Are, Shut Out of Paradise" but can be read as a standalone.

 **We Made Our Best Mistakes**

He can't stop staring.

He knows that he should. He knows that she can probably even _feel_ his gaze. It's fairly obvious, even to someone with senses less keen than hers, and even as he belatedly realizes that Peter is still telling his story, he can't quite bring himself to look away. He imagines that Natasha has that effect on everyone, just as he imagines that, whether he'd realized it or not, she'd always had that effect on him, too. But this is – _different_. He feels his fingers twitch, itching to go over there, to touch her and run his fingers through her hair. His gut feels heavy, his breaths uneven. He shouldn't have such a reaction to this. It shouldn't get to him the way it is right now. It's not his place to be bothered by it, but he can't quite help it.

Peter seems to clue into the fact that Steve's attention is gone, because the kid stops talking rather abruptly, his body leaning in to peer at Steve and then follow his gaze across the room. "Oh," he says with a bit of a laugh. "Yeah, I almost didn't recognize her at first, too."

Steve offers a small smile but doesn't correct him. It's not that Steve hadn't recognized her at first. It's that he'd recognized her as easily as always.

He'd recognized her, but the warmth that unfurled in his chest had been offset by the strange sensation that tugged at his gut as his eyes traced over her bright curls. Her bright _blonde_ curls. Beautiful, no doubt. Whoever dyed it had made the color look natural, which he knows is a hard thing to do with such a light color. But it just didn't feel like his Natasha.

He almost winces. He really needs to stop referring to her as _his_. Not when they still haven't talked about what's happening between them. He thinks that she knows his feelings are a hell of a lot stronger than he tries to let on, and sometimes he wonders if it bothers her. If it does, she hasn't told him. And honestly, he still trusts her to not hide things from him. He never _stopped_ trusting her. It's just, as much as he wants to talk about this, about _them_ , he's also terrified to bring it up. It's stupid and he knows it. She hasn't been with anyone else the way she is with him and that means something. Just as he knows the fact she'd tracked him to Wakanda and chose to stay with him, to put another target on her back by breaking the others out of The Raft because he asked, means something. He doesn't doubt her feelings, and he's not afraid to talk about things because he thinks that she'll want to leave him.

But he's terrified that that's exactly what he deserves.

Because he'd turned his back on her. Natasha tried to keep them together and he turned his back on that. He thought he'd given her a fair chance, but he hadn't, not really. He doesn't regret his choice in the Accords, and he sure as hell doesn't regret choosing to save his best friend.

But he regrets not trying harder. He regrets not fighting for them the way she had. He knows what an _ass_ he must've looked like by turning his back so easily on the team, as if they hadn't mattered to him. As if _she_ hadn't mattered to him as much as she thought she did. As if he didn't care that he was tearing down the only place Natasha had called home.

Things were never as black-and-white as he and Tony made it seem and Natasha was the only one who saw that from the beginning. She tried to get the both of them to see it, too.

And they had. Just not in time.

He swallows, his throat feeling a little tighter. He still can't tear his gaze off of her.

"Everything alright?" Peter asks, his tone worried now. The kid tilts his head to get Steve to look at him. "You got really tense all of a sudden."

Steve tries for an apologetic smile. "Yeah, sorry," he says on an exhale. "I checked out for a second."

"It's all good," Peter says, his voice sounding sincere has he gives a full-bodied shrug. "I get it, it's been a long day for you."

And it has. It's been a long couple of weeks, in fact. They've gone through dozens of press conferences and hearings, have been asked hundreds of questions by politicians and government agents and reporters. He knew that coming home wasn't going to be easy, and that fighting for their freedom – or at least some kind of verdict that didn't land them behind another set of bars – even less so. But Nick says that things are going about as well as could be expected, and Steve knows the man wouldn't said that if he didn't mean it.

Natasha catches his gaze across the room, lips quirking in a smile, though her expression falters a moment later. She's always been able to read him.

She says something to Maria, who nods before walking toward Nick and Tony across the room. Natasha's heels click against the floor as she crosses the distance between them, and her gaze is incredibly _knowing_ as she holds his stare. Then she turns to Peter with a smile and reaches up to ruffle his hair. He laughs, swatting her hand away.

"I hope you're looking after him." Her voice is teasing, but the joke doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Hey! I don't need a babysitter," Peter protests.

"I'm talking about _this one_ ," she says, taking Steve's hand in hers and threading their fingers together. His body eases at her touch, and he gives her hand a little squeeze, tugging her closer. "He should be in a nursing home right now, but you know how stubborn people can get with age." She looks up at him, and there's that look in her eyes again. She knows that something is off. He wants to tell her that it's nothing, except he knows it's not. Not when he can't quite ignore the chill settling in his chest. "Speaking of which, we should get to bed."

Peter laughs. "What? It's only ten!"

"Which means you ought to get going, too, young man. It's a school night."

She pinches his cheek, and Steve tries to laugh at the way the kid whines her name. He manages a chuckle instead, and Natasha's grip tightens ever so slightly in his as she tugs him forward. They should probably say goodnight to the others, but she continues leading him out of the room.

She turns to face him as the elevator doors slide closed, then releases his hand so she can tuck them under his blazer and slide them up his chest. He thinks she's trying to get him to relax, but rather than her easy, playful expression, her eyes are calculating as she peers up at his face. He wants to say something, _anything_ , but she wraps her tie around her hand and tugs his lips to hers before he can even draw a breath. He makes this noise of surprise, not expecting the intensity of her kiss, the urgency of it. He thinks he can even feel her shaking.

Her free hand slides into the short hair at the back of his head, her fingers combing through his hair, and yes, she's definitely shaking right now.

He leans away, only manages to get out a strained, "Nat—" before she presses her tongue against his, digging her nails into his scalp. He groans softly and pushes both hands into her hair, and the whimper she lets out catches him off guard.

He pulls away, giving a gentle tug on her hair to keep her from chasing his lips again. He looks at her, eyebrows furrowed, but her eyes are still closed. She licks her lips.

"So," she says after a moment of silence, before he could work himself up to saying something, "you don't hate the hair after all?" He actually flinches, not expecting the question. She blinks her eyes open, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she curls her fingers around his wrists and pulls his hands out of her hair. "Busted," she says, voice soft.

Then the elevator chimes as the doors slide open, and she steps back, spins on her heels and heads down the hallway before he can even blink.

His stomach flips uneasily, jerking him back to reality as he steps off of the elevator and follows after her. He gets to their hotel suite before the door can swing shut, and Natasha is tossing her heels aside as he walks in. "Natasha," he says, but she ignores him, walking into the bedroom. He jogs after her and catches her arm above her elbow before she can turn toward her dresser, squeezing just hard enough to get her to stop, but not enough to hold her in place. She looks at his hand, and he wonders, briefly, if she's going to shove him off.

But she just exhales slowly, looking up at him from under her eyelashes. He blinks, barely keeping himself from flinching again.

She looks _hurt_.

"It shouldn't have to take something this drastic to get you to look at me."

Her voice is quiet, but her words ring loud and clear. His grip goes slack, but he still doesn't let go. "You did this for me?" he asks as he glances at her hair, even though he _knows_ that doesn't sound right at all. That doesn't sound like his Natasha.

Irritation tugs at her expression. "Did you really just ask me that, Rogers? I know you're not that full of yourself."

He lets out a sharp, short breath, looking between her eyes. "No, I'm not. And no, I didn't think it was about me." He licks his lips, hesitating before leaning in to kiss her temple. He hears her exhale slowly, and he thinks he hears her voice tremble ever so slightly, almost as if – as if in _relief_. "You look beautiful. You always do, Nat."

She pulls her hand from his grip, turns so that their chests are pressed together, her arms sliding around his neck. His hands slide over her hips, giving them a squeeze, and that seems to encourage her to continue. "That's the first time since we got back that you kissed me on your own." Her gaze falls onto his lips, lingering there as his chest tightens, a chill shooting through his veins. Because even though he hadn't noticed this particular change, he _had_ noticed he felt off. This whole time, he'd attributed it to the nerves of being back.

But now? Now, he's not sure.

"Natasha," he says.

"I didn't say that so you would apologize. I didn't think you even noticed." She meets his gaze, her expression cracking ever so slightly. His chest tightens, and he wraps his arms around her, hugging her tighter. "That doesn't mean that I don't want to figure out why."

"I don't know," he admits, and she nods in understanding. _God_ , he doesn't know why she puts up with him, but he thinks it'd break him if she ever stopped. He reaches up with one hand, tucks his fingers into her hair, and her eyelashes flutter ever so slightly. "At least, I didn't think I did until you walked into that conference room today." He twists a chunk of her hair around his finger, over and over, and then lets it unwind and fall against her cheek. "I can't say I was surprised by it, because I know you felt your hair drew too much attention since we got back into the country. I wasn't even surprised that you didn't tell me you were getting it done." He tugs his hand through the length of her hair, fingering the silky tips. "But seeing you walk in like _this_ "—he wraps her hair loosely around his hand—"just made me realize how much everything has changed. Even more than being it did to be in hiding."

"Why?" She doesn't sound upset by this, just worried.

He cradles the back of her head, pressing her close as he presses his face into her cheek, lips ghost along her jaw, brushing the spot just under her ear that always, always makes her shiver. She does now, tightening her hold on him. "When I got chosen for this, when I was injected with that serum, and even when I lost Bucky, and when I flew that plane under—" He swallows, hard. "Waking up in an entirely different century—everything happened so quickly. I was always just _reacting_ , and I used that as an excuse to not really face whatever I'd gone through." He pulls back, meeting her gaze. "But this time had been different. This time, I _felt_ everything slipping through my fingers. Captain America, and the team, and you—"

She blinks. "Me?"

He licks his lips, hesitating. "When you walked away from me in D.C., after Hydra and SHIELD," he starts, feeling a pang in his chest at the way she flinches. "I never blamed you, I promise. Your whole life had just been yanked out from underneath you and I knew you needed time." He tries for a smile. "I knew a thing or two about that."

She lets out a laugh, breathy and shaky. She's not crying, not even tearing up, but he can tell that she feels as overwhelmed as he does right now.

"But, that's when it started, I guess. We'd been partners for two years. You'd become my best friend. But you disappeared, and when you came back, you were a little distant." He swallows, knowing there was no real way to word this without sounding as pathetic as it was, so he continues with, "I felt like I'd been replaced with—" He stops himself. Her lips tug down at the corners, just barely, but just enough for him to notice. "I wanted to talk to you about it, but I couldn't bring myself to. So I kept my distance, too. I never should have."

"We should've talked about it," she agrees softly. "I wasn't fair to you, either, Steve."

"You didn't owe me an explanation."

"That doesn't mean you didn't deserve one," she tells him, reaching up to grasp his chin with her fingers. She smooths her thumb along the line of his jaw, a little wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. "I didn't entirely find myself on my hiatus. I don't think I ever did until I made my way back to you."

His eyes flutter closed, and he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "We have what we have when we have it," he whispers, echoing the words she'd said to him after the funeral. That conversation had felt like a lifetime ago, even though it had only been a few months, and even though the memory of it was still as clear in his mind as if it'd only been hours. Natasha standing across the aisle from him, her expression soft, solemn. The colored light from stained glass had caught in her hair, and he'd never seen a sight more beautiful.

"I thought I'd missed my chance."

He opens his eyes to find her staring at him, eyelashes fluttering, her cheeks flushed faintly. Well, he'd been wrong.

Because he's certain he's never seen anything as beautiful as her in this moment.

Her hand slides up to cup his cheek and he leans into her palm. "I thought I'd lost you in D.C.," he tells her. "In Seoul. In London. Vienna." He flinches. "And Berlin."

"Steve," she says.

"You didn't want to fight. I should've listened to you."

She shakes her head. "They were never going to pardon Barnes, and you were never going live with yourself if you stood by and let them condemn your best friend." She takes his face with both of her hands, cradling him as she pulls him closer. "You think you didn't try hard enough? Fight enough to keep things together? I know that's how you see it. But you tried _so hard_ , Steve." Her voice cracks slightly on his name. "You do everything for everyone else with every ounce of your being. You did _one thing_ for yourself. That doesn't make you selfish."

He swallows, his throat tight. "I kept the truth from Tony. I told myself it was because I didn't want to stir up the past, but really, I knew I'd lose him if he ever found out."

"You did what you thought you needed to do to keep everyone safe, and happy, and _together_. Just as I did when I went to sign the Accords, even when I knew they couldn't be entirely trusted. Just as Tony did when he tried to keep Wanda home, or when he came after you at the airport."

"Natasha—"

"No," she says quickly, leaning up to kiss him, briefly but firmly. "You don't get to turn this against yourself. We all have a hand in this. That's the point."

His hold on her has tightened and he knows she can feel it—can feel how rigid his muscles are, can feel the way his arms have locked around her. But she doesn't even blink. She fits against him easily, taking up his space, until they're pressed together as close as physically possible. Her lips hover over his, teasing, brushing just enough for him to feel her, but not nearly as much as he wants it, as he needs it. Her tongue darts out to lick at his lower lip, and he groans softly, capturing her lips between his before she can lean away. Her breath hitches into their kiss, her fingers gripping the material of his shirt, but she kisses him slowly, almost languidly. She kisses him like they have all the time in the world. Maybe they do.

She keeps kissing him as she walks backward, tugging him with her until her legs hit the bed. He lifts her up and lays her in the middle of the mattress, never once pulling his lips from hers, and she clings to him as he braces himself over her.

His lungs are starting to burn, and eventually, he starts to ease the press of his lips, until his mouth is just ghosting over hers, the both of them trying to catch their breaths.

He pulls back to peer down at her, her hair fanned over the duvet underneath them. He tucks a chunk of it behind her ear, lets his fingers follow the path of her curls.

"I kind of miss the red already," she says in a whisper, eyes sparkling, lips quirked at the corners. He lets out a breathy chuckle and her smile widens.

"I do, too." He wraps her hair loosely around his hand and brings it up to his lips, brushing a kiss to the section wrapped over his knuckles. Then he lets go, letting it fall back to the bed. "But I guess I can forgive your rash decision." He grins, his heart thrumming in his chest. "We all make mistakes, after all."

She laughs, and it sounds like home.


End file.
